Ember's Dance
by ListenToTheWind
Summary: Imagine how it feels to be an outcast. Imagine how it feels to be hated. Imagine how it feels to be sentenced to a horrible death by the people you see everyday. Now you are imagining the 25th annual Hunger Games- this is the way 24 tributes feel now too.


**So here is this idea that I had a really long time ago, like months, when I was absolutely sure no one had done it. It is the story of the first quarter quell, the 25 hunger games. Now, some one else may or may not have already written a story similar to this, I do not know. What I do know is that my story will be really good, and hopefully quite unique, so I hope you enjoy it! Oh, and also, I can not remember if quarter quell is capitalized in the book, and honestly, I am feeling to lazy to check. Does anyone know?**

**-LTTW**

I pull my hair from my face nervously, and enter the little booth, with the velvet curtain.

My stomach twists into a knot as I see the neat little list on the ancient computer screen. There are 356 names on that list- 356 children between the ages of 12 and 18 in District 1. They are in age order, and I cringe to see the first name and picture on the list. "Silly Grange" is an eleven year old girl, whose birthday is the exact day before the reaping, and is therefore eligible to be a tribute. She has wispy blond hair, bright blue eyes, and a nose that is crinkled from her big smile in the picture. I skip past her, and find my own name and picture on the list. I am lounging in a chair in front of my large white house, but that is all you can see of my surroundings, because the picture is from my shoulders, to the tip of my hair which is pulled into a tight ponytail above my head. I am not beaming in my photograph, not like the little girl, Silly, was. I have just the slightest hint of a smile playing on my red lips, my eyes cast to the side, as if I am looking at something amusing. The picture makes my stomach flip. I remember this day- it must have been only three weeks ago, when I sat in that chair while my seven year old brother cartwheeled on the grass beside me. But what I don't remember was the camera- how did they get this picture? My hand shakes as I drag the mouse and click the box, which immediately lights up with a green checkmark, and turns the name bold- **Ember Callios**. I give a shaky smile, before scrolling again down the list. I do not have to go very far to find the name that I am looking for. Sleek Tayler. In a way, although I had never thought that I would ever think this, I am glad for his existence. Any other person I might have qualms about sentencing to death, but he has provided an easy out for me.

I slip out of the booth, and join my mother. She looks at me with sad eyes.

"We can go now," I say, and she nods. My brother, Blaze, grabs my hand, and tugs on it.

"Who'd you vote fow, Emmy?" he says quietly in his baby voice, the one he only uses when he is upset. My face goes very white, and my violet eyes widen.

"I… Well I… I don't really-" I stutter, but my mother saves me.

"Emmy can't talk about that, dear," she says, and scoops Blaze into her arms, although he has gotten too big to be carried far, and she must set him down before we are inside.

"Why didn't daddy come wif us?" he says, still very quiet. Now it is my mothers turn to pale.

"He went to a different place to vote," I say quickly. "A place near where he works." And he nods, now understanding. Since my parents have split up, my mother and I have begun to tell him, practically whenever he asks about my father, that my father is working very, very hard, in order to earn money to buy Blaze more toys- not that my brother, one of the most wealthy, and spoiled children in all the district really needs it. However, that answer always seems to satisfy him.

Today, in mid-June, when the weather is finally beginning to warm up, we walk home, rather than driving our old, though very sturdy car. My mothers high-heeled shoes click-clack against the pavement of the sidewalk, and I sing to myself in my head in order to ignore it.

*****_The candle flickers towards its last,_

_ our time together's ended._

_ The evening sped so swiftly past,_

_ no richer way to spend it._

_ Before we head our separate ways,_

_ I'd like in truthfulness to say,_

_ you've made this day a special day-_

I cut myself off at this point, thinking how depressingly true the words are. Or the part about "our time together's ended" is, at least. Only then do I hear someone shouting my name in the distance. I whirl around to see Delilah, my… well, I suppose the most accurate description would be friend, since I spend so much time with her. But truthfully, I don't really know quite what I feel about her. At times, all I want to do is get away from her. I suppose that the truth of the matter is that I spend time with her because if I didn't, then my life would be awfully dull. That is, considering that I have no other "friends". There are my acquaintances, and Delilah's friends who I am obligated to endure, but truly, the closest friend I have might just be my brother, who is ten years younger than I am.

"Hey, Em! Ember, wait for me!" I sigh, and slow to a stop as Delilah pants after me. My mother and Blaze stop to wait a few feet ahead of me. Finally, she stops by my side. "Hey, some of us from school are going to have a little picnic in that smaller square, the one near the bakery! Would you come with?" I glance at my mother, hoping for a reason not to be submitted to an afternoon of fake smiles and ridiculous conversations. The teenagers of my district, more often than not, only talk about shallow, dull things, like the newest fashions, or their favorite make-up. I like to think that I am a bit deeper than that. However, my mother smiles and nods encouragingly. I turn back to Delilah and give her an overly enthusiastic thumbs up.

"Awesome!" Delilah smiles, and her hair, sitting in two pigtail braids on top of her head, wobbles.

I follow Delilah back down the street towards where I had just left- the school. This is where some of the voting booths were, while others were in places like the justice building. However, before we reach the school, we veer off down a side street, and I see the little corner candy shop. You can see through the glass the little glass jars, each full of candy, fragments of aqua blue, hot red, sunshine yellow. We enter the little shop, a little bell on the door's handle jingling merrily.

"Hello girls, how are you today?" asks the little old lady who manages the counter. She has a cheerful look in her eyes, and the corners of her mouth always tilt upwards, so she has the appearance of always smiling.

"Very well, thank you," I lie swiftly. I do not blame her for not remembering- I know that she has no children or grandchildren, and no one dear to her must be in danger of going to the Capitol. And I do not want to ruin the cheerful woman's mood with moping.

"What can I get for you today? Something sweet, I hope!" she says, and I smile, years of practice making my face appear calm, even excited, and let Delilah choose her candy.

She pays for several little bags, and we hurry on our way. Soon, she is babbling. "I think that Silver is getting us our lunch, she said something about sandwiches, and Topaz, he was going to get us a bite of desert at the baker's-"

"Hey Delilah," I interrupt, and she looks at me with curiosity. "Aren't you even a little shaken up about this whole thing?"

"What whole thing?" Delilah says, her face the picture of confusion.

"You know," I say uncertainly. "The reaping. The quell. Having to vote for the tribute!" I hate having to say it aloud. Since the quell was announced two weeks ago, it seems that, at least in my life, nothing has been the same. Can that really be just me? Of course, no one else is feeling the pain of it like I am- I am the only one who is planning something like this, I am sure. Or I will at the very least be the first to accomplish my plan. But it still is horrifying to me, my innocent mind. Of course- look at me. Just the image of innocence.

"It hardly matters- someone will volunteer." Delilah looks utterly certain- and of course, at least this year, I am sure she is right. However, all I can imagine is the way that it would feel. The way it would feel if you were chosen, and by your neighbors, your family, your friends, none the less, to die. Because in all honesty, we all know that when you are a tribute, just being a tribute, the odds are already against you- 23 to 1. You have 1/24 of a chance to live. For some, maybe less.

But all that I say to Delilah is "yeah, I guess so".

We meet up with Delilah's friends in the smaller of a few little squares in the district. There is a little (well, not too little) plot of grass, where we all sit and eat Delilah's candy, some rather dry and (sorry, Silver) unappetizing sandwiches, and some delicious, and who knows how expensive cake. Not that money is a concern to us- it is, I have to say, one of the perks of living in District 1.

Throughout our little picnic, I am, for the most part, silent. I speak when spoken to, and that is just about all. It is not that I am shy (although I am definitely not the social butterfly that Delilah is), but I do not have anything to say. These people frustrate me- they have no personality beyond their bubbly outer shells. I can't stand it. At least Delilah has (although limited) some depth to her. When they begin talking about what they intend to do next summer, that is when I can not take it anymore. It is just that- the assumption that they will still be here next summer. Is it just the people that I know, or does everyone think that because we live in a rich district, our lives will always resolve themselves? Well, I know for a fact that this is not true. My life has never resolved itself- it leaves that to me. And I am not so good at it either.

"I'm sorry, this has been lovely," I say, putting on my self-centered face, "But I should probably be going. I don't want to worry my mother, she will want me home before dark." I watch the expressions on their faces- they find it amusing that at seventeen years old, I still worry about what my mother thinks. But in truth, it is not my mother that I want to get to. It is them that I want to get away from.

"That's fine, Ember. I will see you tomorrow," says Delilah, and I smile enthusiastically, like the idea makes me happy.

"By the way Ember, your hair is great! I think that people in the Capitol are starting to do things like that to their hair," says Silver, and I wrinkle my eyebrows.

"I haven't done anything to my hair. I just leave it alone." I say, fingering the long black tips self-consciously. I can't have people actually thinking that I care about my appearance, of course.

"Well, either way," she says, and smiles without showing her teeth, a look of frustration now in her eyes. She is probably upset that I didn't thank her for the compliment. But honestly, I do not want to hear how much my hair looks like it is from the Capitol.

By the time that I have walked back to my house, the sun is fading over the light green tree tops, reflecting eerie green light on the ground, but I ignore the shadows, and walk inside. I hear my mother and brother making noise in the kitchen, and contemplate going to say goodnight, but as always, decide against it. The room is just to hard to look at- which is exactly what I decided just over ten years ago, the last time that I set foot in the kitchen. Ever since Ripple.

Instead, I hurry up the stairs, after kicking off my shoes by the door. My bedroom is just to the right of the top of the stairway, and I crack open the door and slip inside. Without turning the lights on, I undress and slide into bed. For a minute, I toss and turn, and then, having a second thought, I slowly sit up, and begin to rifle through my drawers. Finding what I am looking for, I pull out a pair of scissors. I look at the mirror, and my long black hair. It falls nearly down to my waist in waves, and without a pause, I begin to snip it away.

***This is a real song, I did not make it up. It is called "Here's to Song", and it is really pretty, although I do not know who wrote it. The point of this is to say that someone- not me- wrote this, and they get the credit for it.**


End file.
